


A Drop of Honey

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Pilgrim's Crown [9]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 08:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17179934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Deòiridh touches his cheek timidly, looking up at him in wonder. Never presuming anything, never demanding; only asking – for permission, or for just a fracture of what he owes her. Always giving herself wholly before he even asks, and then again when he does. It would be only fair to offer something in return: words, kisses, a bit of attention. Not terribly much; nothing he cannot manage.





	A Drop of Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rannadylin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rannadylin/gifts).



> (From the heavenly words prompts list on tumblr:  
>  _ **Scintilla** : (n.) a tiny trace or spark of a feeling_)

It does not come as a surprise that someone like her likes sweets. She is… very predictable, in some aspects; like a pattern taken out of a story. Except that she is able to lie and put her soul under terrible pressure, so much that it cracks – but does not break. Although the fact that her love is what enables her to accomplish that much does fit the scheme.

Thaos does not particularly care for sweets, but he likes the honey cake – even if is tastes different than what it used to because the recipe has changed – he likes it enough, and he has to order something for supper anyway. So why not give her a little treat, when it comes so easily and will pay off so well later? She will be grateful, and he has become very partial to her means of expressing gratitude. Not the lovemaking, no; the way she is able to wrap her soul around his like a warm blanket and enable him to truly rest. That is surely worth small compromises, from time to time, especially since they are so rare because she always agrees with his wishes.

Briefly, he wonders if she remembers what day is it; that exactly ten years ago he did discover her at the stairs of that small temple. He is not going to mention it – but if she figures that out, he is not going to deny. Knowing that he keeps such details in mind would make her happy.

Thaos smiles to himself, shaking his head. Really, it is so easy to please her… A warm word, a touch of hand, a small kiss. A flower. An afternoon in the rookery, taking care of the wurms. A short walk in the gardens. A smile. Little things, so easy to offer. She deserves more and he would give her that if she asked, but she never does. She is grateful – happy – for every kindness, staring at him adoringly with wide-open eyes every time she mistakes those small gestures for love.

“You don’t like sweets,” she remarks when they sit down to eat.

“This is an exception.” He looks at her and lets the thin line of his mouth soften. “Besides, you do.”

Her eyes and face light up when she smiles, and it transforms her; she is pretty, if somewhat plain, but happiness makes her glow. And when her soul casts a sheen on her entire being, she seems beautiful even to him.

She reaches out, hesitates, and then puts her arms around his neck. Her hair smells of pilgrim’s crown – of honey. Thaos pulls away a little and dips his head; the kiss tastes of honey, too. It seems like something out of a foolish romantic ballad – but it suits her. The scent, the taste, the brightness; even how easy it would have been to overlook her.

Deòiridh touches his cheek timidly, looking up at him in wonder. Never presuming anything, never demanding; only asking – for permission, or for just a fracture of what he owes her.

He strokes her hair and she leans into his touch, hopeful, trusting. Always giving herself wholly before he even asks, and then again when he does. It would be only fair to offer something in return: words, kisses, a bit of attention. Not terribly much; nothing he cannot manage.

Thaos cradles her face in his palms. “My little pilgrim’s crown,” he murmurs, leaning in close, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.

She closes her eyes and smiles, radiating happiness – it settles over his soul, heating it up slowly like warm air from a candle. Melting the worries away, if only for a while. This is all he can give her – stolen moments in between one difficult, important task and another in his unending service to Woedica.

Sometimes, he wonders if it would not be just to make promises. But he would not be able to keep any of them; she somehow senses it, even if she is not aware of that yet. Consciously, she seems oblivious to that – and yet she asks for nothing, takes nothing for granted. However little he offers, she considers everything a blessing, still dazed that she should be worthy of it all.

Deòiridh lifts her hands, touching his face softly, sliding her fingers into his hair, still as amazed as if it was their first kiss. Her breathing is irregular and her palms are shaking, as if she still could not believe this is real; as if every time she thought it but a dream, and then it slowly dawned on her that it truly is happening.

“Thaos?” she asks quietly, noticing that his thoughts are focused elsewhere.

He looks into her eyes, then leans in and kisses her softly. “You’re a gift,” he mutters when he pulls away.

She blushes. It is so foolish, Thaos thinks; how can it be that she is real, not a heroine of some silly ballad? How did she manage to keep some of her innocence even after what he made her do? She is soft, she is naïve; shy, always uncertain. But her soul is strong; not iron, not a rock – adra. Life keeps chipping it off piece by piece; he keeps feeding on that strength – and yet her soul still grows, glows; blooms. Adra – he can feel the pulse of his own soul when he touches it.

Is that why he is drawn to her – because she knows the rhythm of his life, even if she does not understand; because she knows how to slow it down, how to quieten it until it is no longer deafening, how to fill the silence with her presence until it is no longer so crushing? He has had lovers who were more beautiful, scathingly intelligent, ambitious; who seemed a much better match. He has been with Woedica, and no woman could ever compare to his Queen.

And yet he finds himself waiting for the quiet tap on the door whenever she visits his chambers, for the soft touch of her soul on his. Yearns for the peace she wraps around them when they fall asleep embracing, in tangled sheets. She is not what he wants, not what he could ever desire. But perhaps she is what he _needs_.


End file.
